


Chips

by cyborggirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, john is just... :), not really mature but just in case, sherlock needing attention or he will die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:20:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27290056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyborggirl/pseuds/cyborggirl
Summary: "Thank you, love." John says softly, eyes fixed on the screen in front of him.Sherlock feels his pulse quicken.Love.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 109





	Chips

There's a continuous clack of a keyboard in the kitchen, and the slight tone of a kettle on the stove that is just about to boil.

Sherlock stretches out like a cat on the couch. He yawns loudly. The kettle starts to sing.

"Sherlock, would you get that?"

  
John hums quietly and keeps typing, filling out what feltl like the millionth prescription form that day. Hearing no response, he sighs loudly and clears his throat.

  
"Sherlock."

  
He hears a muffled groan and the rustling of sheets from the living room.

  
"You're already in the kitchen," Sherlock whines, "why should _I_ move from my spot when it would be much more efficient for _you_ to move the kettle yourself?"

  
"Because _I_ have to submit these forms by five and _you're_ not doing anything at the moment."

  
Sherlock mumbles something under his breath that John can't decipher. He dramatically rises up from the couch like a zombie crawling out of it's grave, with a large knitted blanket wrapped around his entire body. He pauses. John continues clack away at his laptop, not bearing him any mind. 

  
Not paying attention to him. 

  
He stomps his way to the stove, glaring at his so-called partner, before moving the kettle off of the heat.

  
"Thank you, love." John says softly, eyes fixed on the screen in front of him.

  
Sherlock feels his pulse quicken.

  
_Love._

  
He wonders if he'll ever stop reacting the way he does to such a term.

  
He thinks it's unlikely.

  
Sherlock plops down onto a chair and drapes his upper body over the table, staring intently at John's face, his eyes, the way his forehead wrinkles when he's focused on something tedious. He wishes he were currently focused on something else. Like him.

  
John notices he's being stared at and meets his gaze, and gives him a soft but tight smile. His breath hitches slightly when Sherlock leans even farther over the table, and his blanket falls a bit.

  
John swallows audibly. "Need something?"

  
Sherlock pauses.

  
"Let's have sex."

  
John immediately shifts in his chair and let out a deep breath he wasn't aware he was holding.

  
"Wow," He started, voice low and stiff, "alright—uh—you really have to do this to me, while I'm working?" 

  
Sherlock quirks up an eyebrow.

  
John's eyes are dilated, and he takes it all in, relishes in the feeling that is not only John, but John being attracted to him. He would not believe it if it wasn't so obvious.

  
Sherlock gave up on subtlety a while ago.

  
"You don't want to have intercourse with me?"

  
"No," John says, rubbing a hand down his face, "no, you're not gonna do this to me, Sherlock."

  
"Do what?"

  
"Ask questions you already know the answer to."

  
"So you do, then?" Sherlock leans further towards John.

  
"Bloody hell," John says with a sigh, "of course, but I also want to finish my work, and I think you want attention."

  
Sherlock pouts at this. John usually plays along, but now he's being serious John.

  
He dejectedly plops his upper body onto the table and sighs loudly, resting his chin on his hands and gazing up at his doctor.

  
John leans forward and kisses his forehead, and the moment his slightly-chapped lips touch his skin he feels like he's on drugs again for a moment. He doesn't say anything, and neither does John.

  
John.

  
John fries his brain. Or makes it quiet down. Both, maybe.

  
But he's not any less intelligent. Just different.

  
_Better,_ his internal John-voice corrects him.

  
Sherlock wants to scoff at the thought, because real John might as well have said it, and he wants to argue, but every retort that comes to mind is just some verbal version of sticking his tongue out.

  
"Done," John says, snapping Sherlock out of his head. "I'm done, thank god."

  
Sherlock sits back up in his chair. He must have zoned out, because the lighting in the kitchen is slightly different.

  
Twenty-something minutes, he guesses.

  
John stretches in his chair and smiles.

  
"You should get dressed."

  
Sherlock just wraps himself tighter in his blanket.

  
"Fine. I'll just go by myself and get us fish and chips. You know, so we can eat here."

  
Sherlock shoots up out of his chair and glares daggers at John, who is now grinning proudly. 

  
"You know the quality of the chips plummets once they reach room-temperature, John." Sherlock spits out. "I'll play along with your little trick, though, for your sake, not mine."

  
John laughs. "Good, then. I need to stretch my legs or I'll start hobbling around like an old man again."

  
"You _are_ middle-aged."

  
"Don't start with that. Go change, love."

  
That again.

  
Love.

  
_Love._

**Author's Note:**

> sorry this fic starts nowhere and ends nowhere but I thought someone may like it even though it's so short  
> I wrote it on a whim bc I (1) post about Sherlock and got inspired haha so it's pretty bland and choppy
> 
> my cashapp is $mewbunny if you feel so inclined to support with even one dollar! no obligation.


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